Playing Wiffle ball near dusk
with Jason, just turned six,
soft summer evening
deep in the hills,
I serve to pitch and announce:
“Here it is, a three-one fastball
to young Jason Dodge,
and–on my god–he turns on it,
deep drive, dead center,
way back, absolutely crushed,
a white speck vanishing over the garden fence,
long gone
like a turkey through the corn–
so far outa here
they’ll have to send out a search party.”
And folks, that’s the thrill
of turning one around,
of getting it all,
dead mortal solid on the sweet spot,
riding the bolt
of power into flight.
Jason, so pleased
he’s about to burst out of himself,
says, “Go get the ball.
There’s still plenty of light.”